


Seven Other Ways

by BakerKeen



Series: Let Me Count the Ways [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, S01E03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:16:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4279938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerKeen/pseuds/BakerKeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock shot a panicky glance at the shorter man, the one the Moriarty knew to use against him. His heart hammered in his chest, breathing difficult, despite the fact that Sherlock knew from experience that he could run another 2 kilometers before he would begin to feel exerted. John slipped on some gravel, and Sherlock gripped his arm tightly, pulling at him desperately. "We have to keep moving, we need to be another 25 meters aw–"</p><p>Suddenly, John's arm was ripped out of Sherlock's hand, and he was flying, long arms and legs almost graceful for a moment before he was slammed back onto the concrete. </p><p>Sherlock's body was light, free. He felt as though he was about to float away, but then there was the reassuring pressure of John's hands on his face, gripping his shoulder. Sherlock opened his eyes and the man floated above him, eyes darting wildly, deft fingers probing his throat, his spine, his neck. Sherlock felt certain that he was floating away, that all that was real and anchoring him to the earth was John. And so, when John carefully tilted Sherlock’s head, fingers investigating skull, Sherlock lifted it another centimeter or two and brushed his lips against John's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Other Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Very mild references to PTSD, shouldn't be anything triggery. This is a SLIGHT canon divergence with an alternate ending to The Great Game, but nothing that affects future episodes. I added a tag for DubCon just to be extra safe, but it is resolved within the fic before anything happens. 
> 
> Enjoy!  
> \---------------------

Sherlock lunged at John, slippery fingers tugging frantically at buckles, all pretense of cool indifference gone. "Are you alright?" Silence. "ARE YOU ALRIGHT??!?!?" 

Finally, mercifully, the last strap sprung free, and Sherlock flung the vest away from them. The men looked at each other, hesitating only a split second before sprinting out the door. John paused for just a moment to pull the fire alarm before dashing after Sherlock, who was urging him on with an edge of desperation in his voice. 

Sherlock ran as fast as he dared, but shortened his long strides so John could keep pace. Sherlock shot a panicky glance at the shorter man, the one the Moriarty knew to use against him. His heart hammered in his chest, breathing difficult, despite the fact that Sherlock knew from experience that he could run another 2 kilometers before he would begin to feel exerted. John slipped on some gravel, and Sherlock gripped his arm tightly, pulling at him desperately. "We have to keep moving, we need to be another 25 meters aw–"

Suddenly, John's arm was ripped out of Sherlock's hand, and he was flying, long arms and legs almost graceful for a moment before he was slammed back onto the concrete. 

Sherlock's body was light, free. He felt as though he was about to float away, but then there was the reassuring pressure of John's hands on his face, gripping his shoulder. Sherlock opened his eyes and the man floated above him, eyes darting wildly, deft fingers probing his throat, his spine, his neck. Sherlock felt certain that he was floating away, that all that was real and anchoring him to the earth was John. And so, when John carefully tilted Sherlock’s head, fingers investigating skull, Sherlock lifted it another centimeter or two and brushed his lips against John's.

 _Dry_ , Sherlock observed, _From the panting. Rough, from that way he bites his lip when he is concentrating. Clean shaven, of course._

Once, Sherlock had shown John the insects that he'd preserved in boxes. At first, John had not been enthusiastic about looking at a bunch of dead bugs, but Sherlock had won him over. He had looked dutifully at the _Chortoicetes terminifera_ and _Dynastes tityus_ , shown mild interest in the _Buprestis octopunctata_. But when Sherlock had shown him the _Greta oto_ , John had leaned in, studying the pattern and the transparent wings. Sherlock removed the glass from the box so John could get a better look, and he had picked it up, looking amazed. “Gorgeous,” he had murmured, stroking its wings with gentle hands, doctor’s hands, used to touching fragile things. He had examined the butterfly as he might examine a patient and when he had admired every centimeter he flashed Sherlock the same giddy grin he wore on the odd occasion he uncovered a clue. The moment was so poignant, observing the pure joy of discovering, that Sherlock was sure John would see right through him. But the moment passed unremarkably. 

Sherlock felt rather like the insect when, after a moment of stillness, John began to move his lips against Sherlock, gently, gently, like he was a delicate butterfly that my crumble in his hands. Precious. Beautiful. And Sherlock felt his energy pull away from his body and thought, _Those must be my wings_ , and it was as though the last wisp of gravity holding him to John was snipped and he was flying but his wings didn't work, it was dark and he was lost. 

"Sherlock?" John asked, sounding confused, frightened. 

_John_ , was his last thought before he floated away. _Please._

\---------

The first thing Sherlock observed, eyes still closed, was that gravity had returned with a vengeance. It was not just anchoring him, it was crushing him, so that he couldn't open his eyes, or talk, or move. His ears were working, though, so he reached out with those. Beep ... Beep ... Beep. The sound came at regular intervals, approximately 58 beats per second. _Largo. Heart monitor._ Had he been captured? Paralyzed? Drugged? He listened harder. He heard traffic in the distance, through a window to his right. Squeaky footsteps in the hall. Two female voices speaking just outside the door. He made out the word _shift_ , but mostly it was unintelligible. Then he heard footsteps inside the room, followed by the door opening, and then a very familiar voice. 

"Excuse me, but did Dr. Kent mention when--" The door swung shut and the rest was muffled, but Sherlock had heard enough. An inhale through his nose confirmed the horrible truth. _Rubber, ammonia. Oxygen through a cannula._ He wasn't in Moriarty's lair, he was in the bloody hospital. God, he hoped he was rescued soon.

Little by little, bit by bit, the weight lifted. Sherlock dozed again and when he woke, the cannula was gone and the heart monitor was silenced. He tried to open his eyes and succeeded for a few moments. John saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, and clasped Sherlock's hand. "Sherlock? You awake, mate?" 

Sherlock commanded his long fingers to squeeze John's firmly, reassuringly. They consented to fluttering lightly, but it was enough for John. "You're going to be fine. You're at St. Bart's, took a big tumble after the blast. You were acting like a loon and they were worried you were going to seriously injure your neck, so you've been sedated for a few days." Sherlock's upper lip pulled into a sneer and John chuckled. "I know, I know, but they're going to let you wake up now if you behave yourself. Rest up so you can read me the riot act later on."

Sherlock exhaled his annoyance, but John kept holding his hand, rubbing his thumb along the sensitive flesh over his wrist, and his thoughts wandered. He did not remember arriving at the hospital, but he remembered the blast, being thrown. Was John okay? He must be, he was here at the hospital with him, walking and talking and teasing him. Taking care of him, the way he always did. Gratitude flooded him, and he curled his fingers against John's again. John returned his pressure gently, and there were fingers in his curls, massaging his scalp. Normally, John would never touch him like this. When he had been hurt before, the doctor examined him with gentle hands (or rough hands, if Sherlock protested too much), but John had never been physically affectionate. Of course, Sherlock did not exactly invite affection. Perhaps it was because he was laid up, barely conscious. No, that wasn't right. That explained the squeezes to his hand, but it did not explain the strokes to his wrist, or the caresses to his hair. He replayed the evening in his head. They’d escaped, they were running, the blast … the kiss. John had kissed him back. Sherlock allowed John to soothe him to sleep, a faint smile quirking his lips.

\-----

When Sherlock woke up, really woke up, John's head was on the bed near his thigh, his hand next to Sherlock's. Sherlock observed him for a moment, listening to his soft snores, before deciding that he should wake him before he got a crick in his neck. He reached down, running his fingers through the short, light hair. When John stirred, he sat up, wiping nonexistent drool from his face and stammering apologies before eyeing him carefully. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock considered his body, flexing various body parts before answering. "Muscles are sore, and my head is throbbing."

"You landed on your head, earned yourself a moderate concussion and a decent abrasion. It was a scary looking amount of blood, but you only needed a few stitches."

John's fingers went to his neck, and he instructed Sherlock to twist it this way and that. It was tight, felt misaligned, but no worse than he'd experienced after that collision he'd been in back in uni. "I’m fine, I just need muscle relaxers.” John rolled his eyes but he didn’t admonish him for playing doctor; he must feed badly that he was hurting. Sherlock smirked. “You know, if classical literature is to be believed, a kiss is meant to bring one out of a coma, not put him into one."

John froze in the middle of investigating Sherlock’s spine, seeming to decide whether to deny it or not for a moment before pulling back, a smile playing at his lips. "You kissed me,” he contradicted, “Although, I have that effect.” They grinned at each other. “Would that make you Sleeping Beauty?" 

Sherlock’s eyes danced with mischief. "You've been watching me sleep for --" he lifted his eyes to check the date on the whiteboard opposite the bed, "--two days, so you tell me."

John considered his flatmate for a moment, eyes flicking up and down his begowned form a few times as he pulled his face into an a exaggerated grimace, tilting his head apologetically. "I have to admit, you're looking a bit rough at the moment."

"Well then the question, Dr. Watson," Sherlock purred, leaning forward conspiratorially, "Is, do you like it rough?" 

John rewarded him by flushing satisfyingly and ducking his head slightly as he grinned. "No more morphine for you," he teased. The moment passed and they smiled comfortably at each other. "I wasn't sure you'd remember that," he admitted. 

"Hmm. It was memorable."

"That?" John teased, leaning in. "Just a sample. Barely even counts." Sherlock's stomach flipped, and his mind scattered, unable to think of a quip quickly enough, thanks to the bloody morphine. John smiled and leaned in more, until Sherlock did the same. John brushed his lips across Sherlock's gently, as if asking permission, before pressing soft kisses to his lips. 

_Warm. Soft. He likes kissing, prides himself on being a good kisser. Small penis? No, too confident with women. Religious ex-girlfriend! Probably in college, perhaps uni. Probably college; too attractive to have his first serious girlfriend at 20. She wanted to wait for marriage so he had to put a lot of energy into kissing._ John deepened the kiss, ran his tongue along Sherlock's lower lip before flicking their tongues together. _Snogging,_ he corrected himself. _He seduced her, so now he likes kissing, knows he's skilled. Positive reinforcement. He's confident in his ability to kiss someone into bed, so it must not've taken terribly long once he learned this._ John swirled his tongue against Sherlock's in a way that ran straight to his cock. _Christ. A month, maximum, allowing for the learning curve at the beginning._ With that, he stopped deducing and turned his full attention to the kiss, humming his pleasure into John's mouth and growing slightly dizzy as John reached a hand up to the back of his head to press in closer. He began to feel a bit faint and giggled a bit. _I’m about to faint like one of those Gothic romantics,_ he thought ruefully, thankful that John was holding his head up. The doctor seemed to notice and slowly extricated himself, resting Sherlock back against his pillow before letting go of his head.

"The sedatives they had you on drop your blood pressure," he said breathily. “You can’t afford to have any blood diverted away from your heart and brain for another day or two." With one last smooch, he pulled away with a self-satisfied smirk. 

Sherlock huffed his annoyance at John's smug demeanor and the restriction. "A month," he stated. John quirked an eyebrow. "It took a month for your college girlfriend to decide she didn't want to wait for marriage, after all."

John's jaw dropped slightly and he shook his head in amazement. "Brilliant," he affirmed. "Yeah, she was quite religious. Nice girl! We didn't have much in common," he smiled. He took Sherlock’s hand again and looked at him carefully, as though he was trying to see into his brain through his skull. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. Quit looking at me like I’m about to combust.”

John winced. “Too soon, Sherlock.” He grew quiet, looking down at the fingers he realized he was squeezing a bit too tightly for comfort. “It was … overwhelming. I lost my head for a bit,” he admitted. 

Realization dawned. _Explosions. Blood. Body on the ground._ “You had a flashback.” John nodded, not meeting his gaze, blinking rapidly. He’d had episodes before, and he always seemed a bit sheepish after but not like this. “You didn’t know where you were at first. Had difficulty getting me to hospital. John, I’m fine. A concussion and a few stitches, nothing that getting to hospital more quickly would have changed. Besides, I had my doctor with me.”

John shook his head. “But what if it had been serious? What if we’d been closer to the blast and those minutes would have made the difference?”

Sherlock sighed impatiently. “Then I expect I would have died with you kissing me. There are worse ways to go, I assure you.” He rolled his eyes when John smiled at him. “Let it go. Listening to someone punish himself over hypotheticals is tedious.” John laughed in spite of himself, and Sherlock felt the release of a knot of anxiety in his stomach that he hadn’t realized was there. 

The next 24 hours passed predictably, with John apologizing to colleagues when Sherlock verbally abused them, attempting to keep the genius confined to his bed with moderate success, and keeping an eagle eye on the morphine pump that Sherlock kept convincing the nurses he still needed. Finally, John and Dr. Kent agreed that Sherlock, and the other patients, would rest better when he home. 

Sherlock walked through the door and inhaled deeply. _Old books. Violin resin. Lady Grey tea. Wool. Only a faint chemical smell, but all the same. Home._

John's warm hand squeezed his shoulder affectionately and nudged him over to make enough space so he could carry Sherlock's bag in with him and close the door. "It was weird here without you. I nearly asked Molly to get some eyeballs for the counter."

"Refrigerator," Sherlock corrected. "Better feng shui."

John chuckled and hoisted the bag on his shoulder. "I'm going to run this up to your room and then I'll make us some tea."

Sherlock followed. "I'll come, I want to change out of these foul-smelling clothes." He sniffed. Antiseptic, all over him. 

When they got to Sherlock's room, John dropped the bag and moved to walk out of the room when Sherlock grabbed his wrist. "Stay," he commanded. His fingers slowly unfastened the buttons on his shirt, slowly exposing inches of fair skin. “I might need help. Besides, bodies don’t embarrass you, Dr. Watson.”

John watched with interest, licking his lips lightly. "Have to admit, I don't often see bodies like yours in clinic." He ran his fingers tentatively over Sherlock's chest, smiling when he shivered slightly. Sherlock looked down and John leaned in, rubbing his nose against the side of Sherlock's for just a moment before he looked up and tilted in to claim his mouth. At first the kiss was sweet, cautious, both men smiling as their lips moved together. Then Sherlock opened his lips and shifted slightly, flicking his tongue teasingly against John's. The doctor reached a hand up to pull him closer, exploring his mouth eagerly for several long moments before breaking away to nip at his neck and collarbone as he slid Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders. 

“Brilliant idea,” Sherlock murmured, grasping the hem of John's wool jumper and smoothly tugging it over his head along with his vest. Curious fingers traced his scar for a long moment and then Sherlock leaned in to claim John's mouth again. Sherlock backed them up slowly, tongues and teeth clashing, until the bed hit the backs of his knees and he sank upon it, pulling John into his lap. Sherlock's hands seeming to be everywhere behind John, hands in his hair, rubbing his back, grasping his arse, while his mouth was everywhere in front, kissing his mouth, nibbling his ear and his collarbone, sucking on his neck. Finally, Sherlock tugged at John's belt and John scooted back, standing for a moment to step out of his trousers and pants. He crawled back on Sherlock's lap and the younger man pulled him back in for a long, deep kiss before reaching between them to slowly stroke his velvety length. John’s breath stuttered for a moment and Sherlock could feel the other man’s heart leaping in his chest. _Moderato._ He slid his thumb over the head of John’s cock, heard him gasp. _Allegro,_ he noted. He was just thinking of slowing things down when John planted his knees on either side of Sherlock and pushed him back onto the bed, yanking at Sherlock's belt and tapping on his slender hips. Sherlock lifted and John pulled off his trousers, tossing them on the floor before climbing back atop him to rut against the now very hard erection in Sherlock's pants. He reached down, palming him through the thin fabric of his pants and when Sherlock gasped out a choking groan, he seemed to lose his resolve to take things more slowly. 

John hooked his thumbs under Sherlock’s waistband and shimmied his pants down his legs. He slowly kissed his way down Sherlock’s body, taking special care to nip at his collarbone and hip bones, angular features that had been interesting him for months. When he reached his cock, he didn't tease; he slid his mouth over it, not stopping until he felt Sherlock’s head nestle in against the back of his throat. Sherlock inhaled sharply, seeming to try and gain control over himself as John licked up, and slid down, his cock several times. Sherlock gripped the sheets, mind finally quiet, conscious of nothing but the wet heat of John’s mouth and it was bliss, absolute bliss. After Sherlock was slick and hard and starting to pant a bit, John wrapped a few fingers around his cock, slipping just over the ridge of his head before sliding back down to the base. Sherlock moaned, bucking his hips up to meet John as he slid down to swallow his cock. "So good," he purred. John added a twist of his wrist, a swirl of his tongue; minor changes that made Sherlock's vision go blurry at the edges. "My god," he choked out. "Just like that." When he dared to look down, John held his gaze and sunk down to take a staggering amount of his length down his throat, swallowing against him. _Don’t thrust, don’t thrust, don’t thrust,_ Sherlock reminded himself, although John’s eyes glinted mischeviously when Sherlock grasped him by the hair. He finally came up for a breath before sinking back down, keeping Sherlock’s eye contact all the while. Heat flooded through Sherlock and he gripped John’s hair more tightly, pulling him up a few inches. “If you don’t stop …” 

With one last lick up his shaft, John nipped his way back up his young lover's body. Sherlock devoured his mouth, flipping them over and pinning John's arms over their heads as he sucked on his lower lip. 

Sherlock had never given much thought to John's previous sexual experiences; that is to say, he had paid his sex life no more attention than any other hobby. But he had long suspected, from John's increasingly incensed proclamations that he was not gay, that he had started noticing his passing attraction to men in Uni (that sidelong glance in the rugby photo Sherlock had found) and had been unable to pass it off to himself as a phase when he joined the Army and was surrounded by so many fit men. He was also very attracted to women, of course, and had had several satisfying sexual encounters with them since meeting Sherlock (3, to be precise, despite Sherlock's best efforts); so he had always figured that John had decided fucking women (26 in total, to be exact) was the better choice, given his family's lukewarm reaction to his sister's sexuality. This was completely asinine of course, but John was known to put the well-being of others ahead of his own desires. Sherlock deduced that John felt his family had been through quite enough with John going off to war and returning home broken, not to mention Harry's alcoholism, and that they did not need the further shock of finding out that both of their children were .... if not gay, certainly not straight. Sherlock had often pitied him for the way that his sister's poor choices in life had left John feeling that his were somewhat limited. 

Alright, so he'd given some thought to John's sexual experiences. But this new data, the confidence and skill with which John had gone down on him, caused a shift in his calculations. Lust ripped through him. "You've done this before," Sherlock purred in his ear, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. Erotic images flooded his brain and he sucked and nipped at the younger man’s neck just below his ear as he rutted his painfully hard erection against his leg. 

John chuckled. "Figured you would have known from the way I knotted my tie or something. I had a fling in Afghanistan. You?"

Despite John's attempts to make the question sound unimportant and conversational, Sherlock knew that John had long suspected him a virgin, glaringly obvious evidence to the contrary, and had been dying to ask for some time. Sherlock found obsession with virginity to be petty and stupid, and so he did not dignify others' assumptions about him with a reaction. He knew the number and genders of partners he had had in the same way that he knew the number of toothpicks left in his cupboard; they were simply bits of data that his brain had collected, with no particular value or function. But he found, suddenly, that he worried rather a lot about the value John might place on the information.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was kind, gentle; he definitely thought Sherlock was embarrassed to admit a lack of experience.

"Don't be stupid, John. I'm a recovered drug abuser; I've lived." John smirked and Sherlock felt a rush of relief, followed quickly by a spike of irritation, and resolved to regain in the upper hand. "Let's test a theory, shall we?" He leaned down and swirled his tongue around John's nipple, pinning his arms firmly when he arched up into him. Sherlock smiled as he pressed down on nub with his lips, teasing it erect as John wriggled and panted beneath him. "So sensitive," he teased, mock surprise in his voice.

"How ... How did you...?"

Sherlock switched nipples. "All the jumpers and blazers to hide them. You always wear vests, tight ones. And I noticed that when you run they are always hard.” He sucked and nibbled and swirled at them until John started rutting against him, begging for relief. Sherlock thought of John rutting against his war buddy, perhaps panting in his ear as he was spread open under him, and all his thoughts became hazy.

Sherlock held out a hand to pull John to his feet, spinning him around and rubbing his cock between his cheeks, biting kisses on his shoulders. Sherlock's reached around to grab his cock and John glanced down to watch, but quickly looked away, neck reddening. 

"You're perfect," Sherlock said firmly. "It's the long fingers; no one likes how small they look when I do this." John's shoulders were still stiff. Sherlock sighed his impatience. "You're a great size. I'm sure you fuck like a porn star."

John snorted, but seemed mollified. He watched for a few minutes as Sherlock stroked him, then laid his head back against the taller man when he spat in his hand and quickened his slick strokes. He whimpered when Sherlock moved his hand to his hip, pulling him firmly against him. "Alright?" He asked, grasping tightly and rocking against his arse, making his intent so obvious that even John should understand.

"Y-yes," John stuttered, flushing deliciously. He bent over the bed as Sherlock retrieved condoms and lube from his bedside drawer. Sherlock knelt over him, carressing his arse as he clicked open the bottle and slicked two fingers, but when John puckered defensively before he was even touched, he knelt behind him instead. 

Suddenly, John felt wet heat lapping at his entrance. "Oh, Christ. Holy fuck, Sherlock!" After that, Sherlock's tongue swirled and lapped and probed John into such a state that words were impossible; all he could do was groan incoherently and try to fuck Sherlock's tongue. Sherlock felt himself growing painfully hard, even leaking a bit, and knew if they didn’t move things along he was not going to make it. Sherlock wanted John to come, desperately wanted him to come, but he wanted them to take their time. He was anxious to get inside of him, to feel John's walls around his cock and to watch him crumble beneath him. And so even as John's balls grew tight, and his cock started to twitch, Sherlock released him, kissing his back while John whined pitifully.

"So needy," Sherlock murmured. "Two months is too long to go between sexual encounters?"

John huffed his annoyance, but otherwise ignored the jab and allowed Sherlock to push him back onto his knees. 

Sherlock chuckled and slicked a finger, pushing it slowly into his now willing hole. "You'll come. Loudly, if I had to guess." He added a second finger. John sucked in a breath through his teeth, flinching a bit. "Relax," he crooned. He leaned down and licked around the hole as he slid one and then two fingers in and out, coming close to that one spot but not touching it until John began to pant and push back against him. He added more lube, and a third finger, and started grazing his prostate lightly. John gripped the sheets, making a strangled cry and angling his hips for more. "That's it," Sherlock said, teasing his prostate. "That's how you like it. I could watch you like this for _hours_." As John groaned and bucked and swore, Sherlock was overcome with the desire to lick him all over. Seeing no reason not to indulge, he ran a tongue slowly up John's spine, licks turning into nibbles as he found a particularly sensitive spot on John's good shoulder. He wiped his fingers and gripped John's hips. His cock was resting against John's entrance, and he was watching the man quivering with desire beneath him, when it crossed Sherlock's mind that he wanted to watch his debauched partner as he entered him.

"Roll over, I want to see you." John complied, and Sherlock eyes flicked over him once, drinking in his flushed face, lower lip puffy with his own teeth marks and dry from panting. John's pupils were blown wide with desire, but his jaw was set, hands balled into fists, eyebrows crinkling just so. Sherlock recalculated the data, moved John's trembling and stuttering and whispering into a different column, guilt washing over him as he came to a new conclusion.

Sherlock knelt over him, straddling his thighs, and pulled the man up for a sloppy, frantic kiss, grinding their cocks together. "Tell me what you want," he murmured in his ear.

A half-second's pause confirmed his deduction. "I want you to fuck me."

"Nope." Sherlock's lips popped on the word, then started ghosting kisses along his ear. "Tell me what you really want." 

"I really do,” John protested. “It's just, I've never ..."

"I know, it's alright," Sherlock apologized. Well, as close as he'd get to apologizing. John would understand. "There are seven other ways we can get each other off. It doesn't matter to me." It did matter; he felt suddenly protective of John, concerned about his comfort and pleasure. Sherlock could lock his desire back in a hall closet of his Mind Palace if need be. 

"I -- wait, SEVEN??"

"I've lived," he reminded the older man. "Tell me how you want to come." John hesitated, and Sherlock pulled back, looking him in the eye. "You're desperate for something."

John's cheeks reddened further. "I don't want to be selfish," he admitted. "It should be for both of us."

"I want you to come totally unglued, and I want to know it's because of me. Feeds my narcissism perfectly." This wasn't entirely true; although Sherlock had certainly been interested in his previous partners' orgasms mostly because he liked to be best at everything and he wanted the favor returned, it was different with John. He felt a desire, as hot as the one in his belly, to make this unassuming man feel the type of explosion that could chase away all the ones that brought on the nightmares, leaving behind nothing but an exhilarated bliss. 

John stuttered and he dropped his gaze. "I -- I want ..." His mouth closed again and his face burned; he couldn't say it. 

Sherlock reached south, stroking John slowly, and resumed his ministrations on his ear, deciding that John would be more likely to speak if he didn't have to look him in the face. "Feeling shy? Hmm. Do you want my mouth, my fingers, or my arse?"

John swallowed. "Your mouth."

More strokes. John grabbed Sherlock's length, matched his pace, running his thumb over the tip with each stroke. "Excellent choice. And where do you want it?" The information was sliding into place, and Sherlock thought he knew where this was going, but he had already made two incorrect deductions and was not keen to make a third.

For an aching moment, Sherlock didn't think John would answer. Then a pleading whisper in his ear. "My arse," John admitted. 

"Mmmm, filthy, John. That's not selfish at all; I almost came while I was rimming you earlier." John pulled away, eyebrows raised in surprise. Sherlock rolled John's nipples between his thumb and forefinger as he pushed him against the pillow, trailing kisses down his body. "God, you genuinely have no clue how amazing you are, do you? The way you were wiggling and grinding against my face, begging me for more. I'm leaking remembering it."

John obliging spread his thighs, closing his eyes and tipping his head back when Sherlock took his cock in his mouth. "Are you saying you like it when I act a bit slutty?"

Sherlock chuckled, buzzing John's cock pleasantly. With one last swirl of his tongue, he lifted up. "You are usually so reserved," Sherlock explained. "I like seeing you lose control like that. Bring that fine arse of yours to the edge of the bed and roll over, will you? There you go. Tuck your knees under you. God, you're perfect." Sherlock teased the hole with feathery flicks to the edges while John panted above him. 

Sherlock growled a bit, scraping at the sensitive flesh with his teeth, and John arched, gasping. "More," he whispered. Sherlock grazed and scraped and nipped while John made satisfying noises above him, then applied a very wet tongue directly to his entrance. Groaning, John rested his forehead on the bed, laughing a bit and wiggling to meet Sherlock's tongue strokes. Sherlock lapped at him, sloppy licks that got faster and faster until John was a quivering, swearing mess. 

"Jesus fucking Chr-- aaaah, more of that!" Sherlock repeated the swirling tongue-kiss movement with firm, slick pleasure, as John pushed against him, trying desperately to fuck his tongue. "Please, please," he pleaded. 

Sherlock moaned as his mind grew hazy with desire. While probing with his tongue, he reached down and stroked himself with his free hand. Noticing Sherlock's moans, John peered behind him and swore. "Fuck if that's not hot, but don't do yourself if I can't at least watch. Wait." Sherlock whimpered but complied, grabbing John's cock firmly instead. John bucked and the younger man lapped and probed against him, creating a twisting rhythm with hand and tongue. "More, more, Jesus fuck..." Sherlock groaned and pulled away for just a second, squirting a bit of lube on his hand before returning it to John's cock. Now it was John's turn to groan, and Sherlock beat harder, with long strokes that always went over the head in a musician’s rhythm with probing licks of his tongue. John came, as Sherlock had predicted, with a loud cry, the bucking of his hips slowing as he rode through his pleasure. Finally he relaxed, and Sherlock released him and knelt on the bed at his head, gazing at him hungrily.

"Oh fuck, if you aren't a gorgeous sight," he hissed. "I believe you requested to watch this part?" He pumped himself roughly.

"You're close already," John observed with surprise, grinning at him with fake admonishment. "You weren't supposed to touch yourself again." 

"I didn't," Sherlock gasped. "I told you, it gets me off when you lose control like that right on my face." He punctuated these last few words with short, hard strokes. 

Leaning forward, John found the abandoned condom, swatted away the long fingers, and rolled it on Sherlock quickly before hungrily swallowing him. "Showoff," Sherlock accused as John gagged against him. The older man grinned and swirled his tongue around the long shaft, taking him in long, deep strokes. Sherlock's toes curled and he tried desperately to hold it off, make it last, but it was good, so good. He glanced down, almost against his will, and saw John absolutely _devouring_ his cock with the same single mindedness with which he examines patients. He felt the heat in his belly spread suddenly and there was no stopping it. He cried as the world compressed around him and he gulped in raggedy breaths.

John slowed the pace, holding the condom on at the base as he brought Sherlock through his orgasm. Finally, Sherlock pulled away and tied off the condom before collapsing on the pillows. John laid beside him and they kissed, smiling against each other as they shivered and grew sleepy. John pulled away, looking directly in Sherlock's eyes. "Thank you," he said fervently. "I know you must've been disappointed when I backed out."

Shame washed over him. "I should have noticed sooner that you were --" He bit off the word _scared_ just in time. "-- unprepared for me to want to take you that way. I would have suggested something more mutually agreeable if I'd not been caught off guard by the realization that you'd been with a man before. It affected me more than I would have expected."

John quirked up a crooked smile. "That's ok, I thought I'd be showing you the ropes. Guess we both got things a bit backwards."

"Yes, but that's normal for you," Sherlock said dismissively. "I've always been able to deduce what my partners want and have never given a toss for anyone's sexual past before. I don't understand what happened. I wanted you so badly but I really wanted it to be not just satisfactory, but perfect. I read you all wrong and almost ..." His eyes were prickling and he looked away. 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," said John, sitting up. "Do you think you nearly -- what, _abused_ me?? Don't be ridiculous. I just wanted ... I wanted what you wanted. And I wanted my first time doing that to be with you." He rubbed Sherlock's long arm. "I know you said it didn't matter, but it did to me. I wanted to do something special for you."

Sherlock looked at John again. "I think when you do try bottoming you will see that it's merely one more way for people to make each other feel good. And sure, eventually I would like to be able to do that with you, but there are LOADS of things I would like to do with you that we haven't done yet. Don't overinflate the importance of this one specific sex act."

John smiled. "Seven other ways, yeah?"

"At least. Seven just off the top of my head. And then some of those are mutual, where others will require reciprocation of the same or a different act. And then sometimes multiple methods can be applied to one person simultaneously, as we saw with you. So really, off the top of my head, there are ..." He thought a moment. "I'll have to make a spreadsheet and test your flexibility to give you a final number."

"You want to run an experiment on my flexibility so you can create a spreadsheet calculating the number of ways we can get off together?" John barely held in his laughter.

Sherlock scoffed. "I don't see why that's funny. You asked me a question and I like to be precise in my answers."

John eyed him shrewdly. "I think you want to see that you've tried them all. You're creating a menu." Sherlock opened his mouth indignantly, but John forestalled him. "Come here, you nutter," he said affectionately, pulling him closer and kissing him warmly. 

Something was prickling at the edges of Sherlock's mind, and he closed his eyes, turning to face it. He had never expected that he would feel so involved with -- well, anyone, but especially someone like John. Certainly he was a competent partner, and enthusiastic about The Work in a way few others were. But it was more than that. Sherlock thought about his illogical desire to make sex perfect John, even if it had meant the exclusion of his own pleasure, and about the relief he’d felt when John had stopped torturing himself about his PTSD. Why had he cared what John thought about his prior sexual encounters? When one eliminated the impossible … 

Sherlock listened to John's steady, deep breathing, felt his heavy, still weight against him. "I think I love you," he whispered.

John smiled sleepily and murmured against Sherlock's shoulder. "I think I love you, too, mate."

Sherlock startled at being caught, smiling in spite of himself, and they both slipped comfortably into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, so I would love some feedback! I came up with this idea while proctoring a end-of-year state mandated test. It was 8 solid days of walking around for hours doing literally nothing, so I would enterain myself/ work myself up composing this in my head, ha! I don't know a single soul on this site so this hasn't been betaed or britpicked. If you see an error, please comment so I can correct it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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